A Song For You
by Liete
Summary: -US/UK- 'Why America had come to mind was beyond him, but he had been struck with the itch to write a song about him, and there was simply no shaking it once it caught on.'


**A Song For You  
**

**By: Liete**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters portrayed.**

He wouldn't be the first to write a song about America. It had been done time and time again, sometimes with his own melodies (he always had to scoff when he heard "My Country Tis of Thee"), but he'd possibly be the first to write a song about America the person and not America the nation.

England wouldn't dare use any of the guitars he'd received from his most beloved and iconic musicians (he was particularly proud of the collection of Stratocasters he'd received from Eric Clapton over the years) that he kept carefully locked and warded away from greedy or destructive hands. No, he'd use the acoustic guitar stored in an unlocked cabinet. Maybe an acoustic wouldn't garner the sort of positive screaming response an electric guitar would, but for what he was trying to do, it fit the bill quite nicely.

The sun had been peeking through the clouds that morning, which meant the fairies would be dancing in his garden and the unicorn would be grazing on the grass there. He was going to spend the day outside with his friends, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the beauty of his garden. He had been browsing his library for a good book to read when he stumbled across the stack of blank sheet music he had acquired along with one of the first guitars gifted upon him. Why America had come to mind was beyond him, but he had been struck with the itch to write a song about him, and there was simply no shaking it once it caught on.

He gathered up the sheet music and the guitar, along with a fresh pot of tea, and sat out in the garden. He was greeted enthusiastically by the fairies, who squealed when they saw the guitar and asked if he was going to perform for them. When he answered that he was going to write a song about America, they offered to lend a hand with a little fairy magic. He declined, music had to come naturally, from the soul, and bumbling idiot though America was, England was still in love with him. There was no better inspiration for writing music, after all.

The weight of the wooden instrument on his leg was a familiar one; many times had he sat out with one of his guitars and played a song written by one of his own, or even a song he had written himself, the only audience in either case being the magical creatures who came to see him. Not that he minded, because they would always appreciate his artistic merit. He ran his hands over the strings and frets, and delicately plucked a string. A little out of tune. He sang softly in his rich baritone while he adjusted the machine heads to reach the right pitch, thinking about what sort of song he'd write for America all the awhile.

He thought perhaps he could write a song about how it was America who made the sun shine in his life and how he was several lifetime's worth of warmth, but that was so unforgivably sentimental that even he had to roll his eyes at himself. He couldn't just come out and say that, even if it was disguised in song. England decided he'd write the melody first, and decide on the lyrics later. So found him plucking at the guitar strings and scribbling notes and other notations on the sheet music pages, sometimes furiously scribbling things out or tossing out entire pages, while the fairies flitted above his head in concern. It had to be perfect, he wouldn't settle for anything less.

Perhaps a song about eyes so blue they made the sky look dull in comparison, or a smile that put the sun to shame. He wouldn't sing about heroics or accomplishments that might feed that horrible hero complex of America's, and most certainly not about how it took a lot of time and pain for them to finally get over themselves and realize they belonged together, that their functionally dysfunctional relationship just _worked_.

England stopped to take a sip of his tea and stare up at the sky (still not as blue as America's eyes) in thought. Once again one of the fairies landed delicately on his shoulder and pleaded to let her cast just a _little_ bit of magic to help him with the song. He smiled and patted her head, such a good child, and insisted that he'd be fine. He wanted his song for America to be all his own work.

He finally worked out an accompaniment and melody, one that the fairies cooed at in approval, and he sang gibberish in time to the strumming of the guitar, sometimes stopping to allow for a guitar solo, sometimes taking his hands off the strings to allow for what should be a dramatic vocal interlude.

But how to say I love you and you make my life better without actually saying it in so many words? Not that he wanted to be frank and passive aggressive (you piss me off, but I put up with you anyway), but being saccharine just didn't suit them. There was always metaphors about summer days and endless fields or telling a story about another couple in love with a big reveal at the end that it was supposed to be about them. That would be quite the cop out, though.

But then it hit him. In the same fashion that Elton John and Bernie Taupin had written "Your Song" he could write a similar song about America. 'I want to write you a song about how I feel about you, but it's harder than I expected. So this is your song, and I hope the meaning comes through.' If he could come up with his own unique lyrics, that would work quite well. Suddenly it wasn't so hard anymore.

"I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do. My gift is my song, and this one's for you," he sang as he eased effortlessly into his own song.


End file.
